Point last seen
by NBBligh
Summary: Russell Jackson misses two meetings and can't be reached By phone. For a man who has his cellphone permanently attached to his hand that sounds troubling.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Madam Secretary or any of the characters in the TV series.

This is a work of fiction and offers no spoilers to the series.

* * *

Elizabeth McCord was fuming. She was more than used to Russell Jackson storming in her office, demanding whatever and ranting about who knows what but once, just once the man had set an appointment with her and now he was late. Very late. Actually, so late that if the little terrier wouldn't show up in the next five minutes, she would have to just leave. Make that four minutes, McCord thought, checking her watch.

"Ma'am, the meeting will start in four minutes," Blake reminded her. Elizabeth McCord gave a deep sigh, took her jacket and purse and walked out.

* * *

After a meeting with the Canadian ambassador at his office where they had enjoyed a tasty lunch Madam Secretary decided to turn the tables on Russell Jackson. It was a high time and Blake kept on prompting her to do it: just storm into Jackson's office and let him feel how it tasted to be interrupted without any warning or politeness. She asked her motorcade to drive her to the White House where she very effectively stormed into Jackson's office – only to find it totally empty. Puzzled Elizabeth stepped into the outer office. Adele looked at her surprised.

"Ma'am?"

"Um… I'm looking for Russell," Bess said. Adele's look went from surprise to stunned.

"Ma'am, did you forget something?" she asked.

"When?" McCord asked.

"I mean he just had a meeting with you and…" Adele started.

"When's the last time you saw him?" McCord interrupted.

"This morning. Early this morning. He has meetings all day and he already had cancelled the brunch," Adele told her.

"Cancelled or just not shown up?" Elizabeth pushed on. Now the assistant started to realize that something was horribly wrong.

"I don't know, ma'am. I will check," she said. Elizabeth took her phone and called the head of her DS detail.

"Matt, do you have a way to contact Russell Jackson's driver?" she asked. When the man said yes, she asked him to do so and then let her know where Jackson's car was. Very shortly the bodyguard called her back.

"Ma'am, I can't reach him," he said. Bess looked at Adele. The woman's face was ashen.

"Ma'am, the brunch meeting this Morning. He just didn't show up," she said.


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth started walking. She headed for the Oval Office. Lucy assured her that POTUS was alone, so she simply knocked on the door and stepped in.

"Bess, morning," Conrad Dalton said with a smile, but the smile died on his handsome face.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Russell Jackson is missing," Elizabeth said.

"What? Don't be absurd," POTUS said and got up.

"We can't reach his driver, he has missed two meetings this morning without a warning or a cancellation and his phone is dead," Elizabeth McCord said.

"Russell's phone is dead?" Dalton asked. Everything else he could have overlooked but that was the detail he found most alarming. Right at that moment Captain Ronnie Baker walked in.

"Mr. President, Madam Secretary, we have found Mr. Jackson's car," she said without an interlude.

"Where?" POTUS asked.

"Side of a road at the industrial area. Sir… we also found his driver, Luke," Baker said.

"And?" Dalton asked.

"He's been shot," Baker reported.

"Badly?" Bess interjected.

"Luke is dead. He was shot in the head. There was a lot of blood in the car. Also on the back seat," Baker said. Then the woman clicked a button on her phone that had just chirped.

"Thanks," she said and dropped the phone in her pocket. She opened her laptop and brought it closer.

"This is the CCTV feed from the company that owns the buildings where the car was found," Baker said. Both Dalton and Elizabeth came closer. The screen was divided in four smaller windows. Each showed a sector of the road outside a fence. First they saw a black SUV appear and come closer. Then the SVU jumped violently and a heavy cloud of dust rose from the road. Third window showed six armed men approach the vehicle. Something flashed inside the car. The driver's side window broken. The driver was shot in execution style in cold blood. The fourth window on the screen showed a man dragging someone out of the SUV back seat. By size and shape the someone was Russell Jackson. He fell on the ground holding his side with his right hand. Then he was dragged up and shoved into another SVU. The man sitting next to Luke was also dragged with them.

"There was blood on the ground right about there. It seems like Mr. Jackson was shot," Baker said. POTUS started to look ashen.

"Why did they take Greg too?" Elizabeth asked. Baker shook her head.

"I don't know, Ma'am. I'm sorry," she offered.

"Was there an exit wound?" Dalton asked. Baker looked at him.

"There has been no bullet hole found anywhere in the back seat," she said.

"So, the bullet is still inside. How long do you think he has?" Dalton asked Elizabeth McCord.

"A few hours. Depending what kind of damage the bullet did inside," she said.

"I would think one hole is better than two," Baker commented. It took her a few moments to realize she had said it out loud.

"In general, yes. A bullet itself is clean. It pretty much disinfects itself in the gun barrel with the heat and all. The dangerous issue is the vacuum the bullet creates behind it. All the impurities of the air, the fabric from his clothes, dirt… everything is pulled into the wound when the bullet goes in and if it stays in, the debris is what really starts the infection. That is what kills most gunshot victims who are not killed instantly by the actual shot: The wound gets so septic that there's nothing doctors can do. He was wearing a suit so there is at least two, three different fabrics inside the wound and who knows what else, " Dalton explained.

"What about the bleeding?" Baker asked. POTUS almost replied but that was when Elizabeth figured it out.

"That's why they took Greg," she said.

"Why?" Dalton asked.

"Because he is a universal blood donor. Blood-type that can donate to anyone. They didn't necessarily know Russell's blood-type but they knew Greg's, so they can replace the blood Russell is losing. I start to think they shot him to immobilize him," Elizabeth said.

"You think Greg is in it?" Dalton asked.

"That is possible. Then again I guess his blood-type would have been easier to find out so knowing Greg could donate and Luke perhaps not, they took the one they could use and killed the other," Elizabeth let her mind draw the clear logic.

"What about his heart?" Dalton wondered. Elizabeth looked at him.

"It's a time bomb. Losing blood will put a huge strain on his blood pressure. I don't think they have any idea what kind of trouble they've put themselves into," she said.

"So we are waiting for a ransom call?" POTUS asked.

"Most likely," Elizabeth admitted.

"Or a death notice," Baker said quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

Russell Jackson sat tied to a cheap garden chair. He had been conscious for a while but he just kept his head down and ears open. The moment the SVU had jumped, he had known what was coming. OK, he didn't expect Luke to shoot him but everything else was pretty much clear. Blood leaked down his belly, soaking the shirt and pants. Pain was bearable, almost distant. Very slowly he raised his head to look around. A fist was already waiting. The punch made him see stars.

"No more!" someone shouted. Ok, so there was a leader involved, Russell thought. Jackson let his chin fall to his chest. He had no hair for anyone to pull his head up by, so someone took a hold of his ear and yanked.

"Ah!" Jackson yelled. It was more a shout of anger than agony.

"You are Mister President's number one man are you not?" a man asked. His English was thick with accent and from what Jackson could see, his face gave indications of Middle Eastern decent. Jackson snorted a laugh. Deny everything, isn't that what they say.

"I'm a freaking clerk," he said. A fist found a sweet spot right above his ear. Moment later his face was yanked up again by the ear that was ringing loud after the punch.

"I see you on television. Mister President walk, you walk behind him. It is place for respect," the man spat.

"Yeah, _behind_ him. I'm a clerk. I write his speeches," Jackson said.

"What this mean?" came an angry shout from further. For a while the men spoke in fast Arabic on some other language similar to it. Russell started to realize that these guys were not sure of his identity and that gave him a whole new ballpark to play on.

"Clerk speech writer man? Why you have fancy car? Two bodyguard?" the thick-accented man demanded. Jackson cursed in his mind. He had forgotten that Greg was also alive, at least had been a while ago. Greg knew who he was and could call him out on the lie at any time. Luke he had trusted, but the little parasite had turned the 9mm and pulled the trigger without even blinking. Hoping he could trust Greg to stay quiet for now, Russell decided to stick with his story.

"Two drivers is a protocol, you dumbass. Anyone gets a ride on a fancy car when working at the White House. It's a perk," Jackson kept on lying. OK, the dumbass was a stupid thing to say. A fist slammed to the corner of his mouth.

He knew that the code would prevent POTUS from negotiating with terrorists. Fine. Carol would be alright. She was probably ready for his death anyway, considering the condition his heart was in, not to mention the blood pressure. He had no such knowledge, the government couldn't function without so if these idiots killed him now, nothing would stop. Of course he knew stuff, things no-one could ever imagine one man knowing and he had a special talent to use this knowledge for POTUS's benefit, and sometimes others too. But nothing really important would be lost the moment his brain shut down.

And then it felt like the time had come. The agony was beyond anything he could have imagined. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw one of the terrorist push his fingers inside the bullet wound. Russell Jackson screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

"We have your man," they heard a thick accent through the computer speakers.

"What man would that be?" Conrad Dalton asked.

"Man, who write your speech. He say clerk but he is on Television with you," the accented voice continued. Dalton looked at Elizabeth and tried to ask what the hell was going on. They knew who these people had but why did they think that White House Chief of Staff was some trivial clerk?

"I cannot just take your word for it. I need proof of life," Dalton demanded.

"Look!" the accented voice said. The camera that had been facing a wall, moved some and showed a man sitting on a chair. There was a large stain of blood on his shirt that was filthy with mud and who knows what. The man looked unconscious. His eyeglasses were broken and only one lens was still intact. Someone pulled his ear and the man's head jerked up. It was Russell Jackson, no doubt.

"This man. I see him on television with you. He is your man. You free prisoner and I give you back your man," the thick accented man continued. Elizabeth McCord looked at the president. She took a piece of paper and wrote fast. Then he showed the note to Conrad. The man gave her a slight nod.

"Which prisoner you would be interested in?" Dalton asked.

"Jamal Cucma. You free him in three hour or your man die! I call again. One hour!" the thick accent demanded and slam the camera shut. Darkness filled the screen. Conrad Dalton was just about to close the laptop, but Baker shook her head.

"No, sir, please. Let me see what I can find," she pleaded. Dalton got up.

"Of course," he said and backed away.

"He looked really bad," Elizabeth said. Dalton couldn't but agree.

"He has lost a lot of blood," the President said quietly.

"I think it's time to call Carol," McCord said.

"What the hell do I tell her? Hey, it's your old pal Conrad. Look your hubby's been kidnapped by some terrorist but since we have this funny little rule about not negotiating with terrorist he will be left to die?" POTUS yelled. Then the man raised his hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was completely uncalled for," he said. Elizabeth patted his arm.

"I know what you mean," she said.

"Who the hell is Jamal Cucma?" Dalton asked. Baker looked up from the laptop.

"I checked his name as soon as it was mentioned. He was arrested at Dulles International Airport eight weeks ago for travelling under false name. The passport was a forgery and he also had a huge amount of cash in his bag. He has been kept in federal custody since, but they are pretty much lost with the man because he has no visible connections to any known terrorist organizations, but the money speaks in high volume for some kind of link. There is no known birth place for this Cucma and he is unable to give any sensible answers. The people who have talked with him say he seems a bit slow. working theory is that he was a puppet," Baker said.

"What kind of a puppet?" Dalton wanted to know.

"Most likely the passport and the money were given to him and he was told to fly to Dulles at a specific time of a specific day. All the havoc around him may have helped someone else slip through the security check easier, because a forged passport and a stack of cash always draw attention," Baker explained.

"A decoy you mean?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes," Baker confirmed.

"That is very possible. We need to check the passenger manifest of that flight," the Secretary said.

"On it," Baker acknowledged, and her fingers danced on the keyboard.

"Why would they want this Cucma out?" Dalton asked.

"What do you mean?" Bess asked.

"If he is just a decoy, why not let him rot in prison?" POTUS explained. Elizabeth sat down and let her thoughts flow free. Then she looked at Dalton.

"What if the people who have Russell have no connections to any major terrorist groups? Baker said the Feds think this Jamal Cucma is slow, so I assume she means mentally handicapped. What if the people who want Cucma out are his family? Father? Brother? They may have only now found out that Jamal was used," McCord offered a theory.

"If they are not terrorists, and by that, I mean members of a known terrorist group, I wonder if they have any idea of our policies," Dalton pondered out loud. Elizabeth followed his line of thought.

"They want to appear tough, but they have no idea who Russell is. They attacked him because they had seen him on TV, walking with your or probably somewhere close to you on a press conference and who knows hold old that TV clip was. Russell was an easy target. No big motorcade, usually just one driver, nothing big. Also, he pays no attention to his surroundings most of the time: his eyes are pretty much focused on this phone. They thought he was someone important and of course he is, but I think he has told them that he is just a clerk of some kind. Toned his importance down severely to make the kidnappers uneasy," McCord said. Dalton gave her a nod.

"I don't want to negotiate with terrorists or anyone who comes close, but I think we could find a better solution to this than just telling them our policy," Elizabeth suggested.

"What kind of a solution?" POTUS asked.

"If the guy is really mentally ret… I mean handicapped, then I don't think he should be kept in prison. Let me talk to him. I know I am not qualified to say if he is handicapped or not, but I am pretty sure I can get some read on the guy," Elizabeth said.

"Go!" POTUS said immediately.


	5. Chapter 5

Elizabeth McCord walked in the federal custody building. She had phoned ahead and Jamal Cucma was prepared for the visit.

The man was approximately 25 years old, dark haired, slim and quite tall. It took Elizabeth less than five minutes to realize the truth about this young man. She stepped outside the room where she had talked with Jamal and called Dalton.

"Mr. President, I have met Jamal Cucma," Bess said.

"And?" Dalton asked.

"How would I put this neatly… The lights are on but no-one's home," McCord said.

"Retarded?" POTUS asked.

"Very much so. I doubt he would be able to tie his shoelaces, assuming he knew which foot to put in which shoe. This kid was used as a bait," Bess said without a doubt.

"OK, come back. They should call in a few minutes," Dalton said.

* * *

The call came almost half an hour late. Elizabeth had just gotten back to the Oval office when the video call connected. This time they saw a sturdy man wearing a scarf that covered most of his face.

"I say I call. I am here," the thick accented man said.

"Yes. You are half an hour late and I can deal with that if I see my… clerk," Dalton replied. The camera was turned, and they saw Russell Jackson sitting on the same chair as earlier. Someone was holding his head up. There was no motion on the man's face.

"That's not proof of life. I can't even see if he is breathing," Dalton demanded. Another man slapped Jackson's face and they heard a soft moan full of pain.

"Stop hurting him! If he dies, the negotiation stops there!" POTUS growled. The thick accented man, clearly a leader of some sort, raised his hand and said something. Bess wrote the translation on a paper fast and showed it to Dalton.

"We hurt him no more. We want our man," thick accent said.

"Give me a moment," Dalton said and clicked the sound on mute and camera dark.

"Ideas Bess?" he asked.

"Let me talk with him," Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, I figured you would want that," Dalton said and turned the sound and camera on. He switched places with Elizabeth.

"Who are you?" the thick accent asked.

"I am Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord and I have just met your man, Jamal," Bess said in Arabic.

"You met Jamal? Is he alright?" the man asked in his native language. Bess gave him a nod.

"He was used, wasn't he?" McCord asked. The sturdy man started to cry.

"Yes. He is my son. Those people took my daughter and said they would kill her if Jamal didn't help them. He only wanted to help his sister," the man said. Then he looked in the camera.

"I am sorry we took this clerk. I am sorry for him getting hurt. I just want my son back," the man said.

"I understand you. I have met Jamal, so I know his situation," Bess explained. Then she decided to be honest.

"Mr… I don't know what your name is, but the situation is this: You kidnapped a US government employee in a very violent manner and that marks you as terrorist in our books. By code, we do not negotiate with terrorists. We need some time to figure out how to handle this," Elizabeth said.

"Yes. I call in one hour," the Arab said and turned the camera off.

"Will Russell live for one more hour?" Dalton asked.

"I have no idea. What the hell are we going to do?" Bess asked. Dalton chuckled a bit at her choice of words.

"I got something," Baker said unexpectedly.

"What is it?" both Dalton and Elizabeth asked.

"I isolated Mr. Jackson's face from the video because I saw something on the lens of his eyeglasses, the one that is still in one piece," Baker told them and turned her laptop, so they could see the screen. The pixels were unclear but there was a reflection on the eyeglass.

"That is your something?" Dalton asked.

"No, that is just a reflection of something. This is what I have," Baker said. Her fingers poked a few keys and the reflection on Russell's eyeglass appeared on the screen.

"RAM LO?" Bess read. The text was very unclear but that was what it looked like. Baker nodded.

"That is nothing," Dalton barked. Baker looked at him.

"Mr. President, if I may," she said.

"Fine," Dalton nodded.

"By the size of the sign and the style of the letters and the color of the font I think the sign actually says 'wool market'," Baker revealed.

"What?" Bess asked.

"When they slapped Mr. Jackson, his head turned, and I have slowed the video down so much that I can read 80 % of the letters. 'Wool market' is the only option. This sign was at a now closed farm market place. It's a 45-minute drive from here," Baker said.

"Are you sure?" Dalton asked. Baker got up and looked at the President.

"Sir, if I may be blunt, I don't get paid to guess things," she said. Bess grinned. POTUS nodded.

"Fine. Get a team ready," he ordered. Baker nodded and left the Oval office.

"She's growing talons," Bess said with a laugh.

"Yes, she is. But she still looks like she was 12 years old," Dalton laughed too.

Only a few minutes later they received a confirmation: a tactical team was already on their way to the abandoned wool market building.

"Mr. President… Conrad… please, try to take them alive," Bess asked. Dalton nodded.

"I don't want anyone to die," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

"Did you call Carol?" Elizabeth asked while they waited for a word from the tactical team. They had moved to the tactical center and both noticed how the other quickly looked at the chair where Russell Jackson usually sat.

"No. I know I should have but I have no idea what to say," Dalton admitted.

"If Russell's taken to a hospital in the next hour, she'll have to hear about it," McCord said. Dalton looked at her.

"I know. I will go see her as soon as the tac team saves Russell," the President promised.

The live video feed from the tactical team commander's camera revealed a large warehouse with dirt covered windows high on the walls.

"We are going in, in 10, 9, 8…" the commander counted quietly. The doors were shut and there was no movement anywhere. Williams reached zero and small explosive cracked the lock of the door. The team moved in.

The warehouse was empty.

"Commander, where are they?" Dalton asked.

"Not here, Mr. President. There is one DOA in the main area, but everyone else is gone," tac team leader Williams replied.

"What else is there?" Elizabeth McCord inquired.

"There's a chair in the middle of this whole area. It's stained with blood that seems wet. There's food and other stuff on the table. Seems like they left in a hurry," Williams said.

"Any ID on the dead man?" McCord asked. Williams turned his head to show the corpse on his camera. The dead man was the same Arab who had less than an hour before talked with Dalton and McCord on the video conference call.

"Shit," Dalton huffed.

"Sir?" Williams asked.

"Things just got a lot more complicated. Check everything. Try to find out if there is something to indicate where they may have gone," McCord said.

"Yes, ma'am. There's a lot of blood here. It's not all from this guy," William pointed at the corpse.

"Show us the chair, close up," Dalton ordered. Williams walked to the chair that was standing in the middle of everything. The white plastic parts were mostly covered in red.

"Oh my…" Elizabeth whispered quietly.

"Thank you, commander. Go through everything," Dalton said and closed the video call.

"I don't think you can postpone talking with Carol," Bess said. Dalton shook his head.

"No, I can't. What the hell happened there?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Bess admitted.

* * *

Carol Jackson came to the waiting room area. She had been informed that someone had asked for her and she assumed it was a patient or patient's parent. When she saw Conrad Dalton she halted. Elizabeth McCord stood by the President.

"What is it? Is he dead?" Carol asked right away.

"Carol, we better sit down," Conrad said and pulled her to a chair sitting down on a sofa himself. Elizabeth sat down too.

"We should have contacted you earlier, but things have been quite hectic today. Carol, today at 8 AM a group of unknown men kidnapped Russell," Conrad said.

"What!" Carol whispered. Elizabeth took her hand and held it while Dalton explained everything that had happened during the day.

"Shot? Bleeding? And now you have no idea where he is?" Dr. Jackson asked.

"I'm sorry Carol," the President said.

"What happens next?" Carol wanted to know.

"We have to wait for them to contact us again," Elizabeth said quietly. There was really nothing else to tell her. Promising to contact her as soon as some new information came in, Dalton and McCord left the hospital.

"I feel like such a dick," Dalton admitted. Bess tried to stifle a laugh with pretty low success rate.

"Not something I'd expect to hear from you," she admitted.

"I think you feel the same way about me," Conrad accused her quietly, but laughed too.

"Not really. But yeah, we could have contacted her sooner," Bess said.

"So, there is nothing?" Dalton asked. Elizabeth shook her head.

"Nothing. Bloody chair, food on table and some papers but nothing to indicate where they are now and who is running the show," she said.

"I can't understand this. We had no reason to think there would be someone else involved," Dalton pondered out loud. Bess looked at him

"Could it be those people who used Jamal Cucma in the first place?" she asked.

"Most likely it is but that makes things even worse. Those people are not above using a mentally handicapped child to their own benefit. Russell's life is worth nothing to them," Dalton reminded her.

"We need to make sure they know who he is. If his true position is revealed, they may see him as more valuable asset and keep him alive," McCord said.

"If he is even alive anymore," Dalton said quietly. Bess had no answer to that.


	7. Chapter 7

The room was dark and smelled like smoked food. Russell Jackson felt his stomach turn, but throwing up would certainly not be a good idea: someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth and tied it with another one. The gag kept him quiet and very alert. The risk of choking was constant.

The wound had stopped bleeding or that is how it felt anyways. Or maybe there was no more blood left, Jackson thought grimly, knowing he would be dead already if that was the case. Or perhaps he was dead, and this was his own special hell. For a moment Jackson amused himself by thinking of all the things he had done that would make sure he would end up on the frying pan after death, instead of sunny, flowing hills of grass listening to choirs of angels. Then he thought what an idiot he was thinking of death which made him think of how long he possibly would have after bleeding for so long which again turned his thoughts to death. Great…

The garden chair had been suddenly pulled from under him and he saw someone shoot the Arab with heavily accented English. It had been the mysterious overlord of everything, the man that had kept in the shadows and let the now dead Arab run the whole show. Jackson had been dragged to a van and shoved in the back. He had tried to keep some kind of track of where they were going but after a while he had lost consciousness and when he woke up in this room, tied and gagged, he had absolutely no idea where they were. Most likely still on US soil but he could have slept for hours so there was no way telling in which state they were.

Someone came and yanked the gag off. Jackson coughed and felt the wound again.

"Drink," a voice said quietly. He was given water from a bottle and he didn't give a damn if it was clean, drugged or outright poisoned. He just drank. He heard footsteps and tried to drink as much as he could before the bottle would be taken away.

"Lay down," the same voice said. Jackson felt fingers pull his shirt up and someone was checking the wound.

"The idiot who put his fingers in this probably carried all possible germs and dirt but I soaked it with disinfectant so hopefully the infection is slowed down enough to keep you alive," the voice continued.

"Who… who are you?" Jackson stammered. Talking hurt. A gentle hand laid on his chest and kept him down.

"I'm a Federal agent. Anti-Terrorist group. I have been working undercover in this group for six months now. I had no idea they were planning to kidnap a government employee and I'm sorry for everything they have done to you," the voice said. Then Jackson saw a short flash. The man had flipped his phone on for a while and Russell realized it was his very new driver, Greg.

"Greg?" he asked.

"Actually, Jalil Ahmed to them. And to you too, for now," the man said.

"Jalil…" Jackson confirmed. He felt a hand pat his chest.

"Yes. Just keep that in mind and forget everything else. I know the chubby guy talked with POTUS and someone else, probably the Chief of Staff but then Shadow realized they were playing him and killed the guy. This whole thing was a scam, in a way," Jalil said. Jackson shook his head to clear his mind.

"Who was who talking to?" he asked. Jalil tried again.

"The chubby Arab at the Wool market was communicating with the President by a video conference call. I couldn't see who else was online with POTUS but isn't his Chief of Staff always there?" the man tried. Jackson snorted a short laugh.

"Yeah, always… except right now," he said.

"What do you mean?" Jalil asked.

"I am the fucking Chief of Staff. Russell Jackson," Jackson said. Jalil got up.

"Sir… for real?" he asked.

"Last I checked…" Russell said with a hint of irony.

"So, the fat guy was right… you are important. Hell… he just had no idea how important," Jalil said. For a moment Jackson feared he had made a huge mistake telling this all to Greg or Jalil or whatever the hell this man's name was. But then Jalil sat down again.

"OK, so it's way safer for you if they keep on thinking that you are a nobody. No offense," he said.

"Non taken," Jackson promised. Then he shook his head again.

"More water?" he asked and hated the pleading sound in his voice.

"Yeah, sure," Jalil said and opened a new bottle. He helped Jackson drink and when the man finally pulled away, he agent laid the bottle on the floor and leaned in.

"They put me in this group because they figured the leader, not the fat guy but this guy who stays in the shadows, is brewing something big. There's been chatter online, whispers, all kinds of stuff. Everything pointed in Syria but then someone found a link between a Syrian household and this guy here in States. I'm being vague just so there isn't much you can tell if they shove fingers in the bullet hole again and start really grilling you," Jalil said.

"Did I talk the first time?" Jackson asked. Jalil was quiet for a while.

"No and I truly admire that. You're not exactly a field agent, are you," he said. Jackson laughed a bit but let it go.

"Go on," he prompted.

"Through assets I was taken in Syria through Turkey. I met local group members there and gave them my story: I was an unhappy government employee who still had good contacts in high places. I was sent from Syria to New York. I took a train down in Washington DC, met a contact and after three months I finally got in the same building with this leader, Shadow. He is the most secretive guy I have ever met. He never shows his face to anyone. His Arabic sounds just about right but there's something wrong with the tone. I would say he's had an operation done on his vocal cords or something. Anyways, the chubby guy, Hamid. Someone kidnapped his daughter and made his son take a flight to Dulles Airport. The kid is totally retarded so when he showed up with a fake passport and 15 grand, the whole airport was all over him and three other guys slipped through like nothing. That was the plan. But then Hamid started demanding that his son must be helped out of the federal slammer and I realized that was finally a way for me to prove my worth to Shadow. I went to meet him and suggested I could use my old contacts to get me a job as a driver in DS. We could just choose someone, kidnap them and make a switch. He took my idea, and I applied for the DS job. I never thought it would take me so long to get in but my contact in the government said that if they took me in too fast, that too would be suspicious. Yeah well, when Luke and I got in that car this morning, I didn't even know who you were. It was my first shift. Then Luke shot you and I realized he was a sleeper agent for this organization. I had heard rumors and Luke's not the only one," Jalil explained. Jackson shook his head again, trying to clear his mind again.

"There are sleeper agents in the DS?" Russell asked in disbelief.

"I think Luke was the only one in DS. I mean the government," Jalil said.

"Let's hope so," Jackson commented.

"OK so Luke shot you and I figured that was not part of the plan because they shot him right after that. They pulled me with them like I was their prisoner too, to keep my cover and took us to the warehouse. There things got complicated because Hamid started to back out. He said he didn't want to hurt you, he just wanted his son and daughter back. Someone spoke Arabic to him while they were on that video conference call. I just heard him replying in Arabic, not what the other person was saying but Shadow got angry. As soon as the cam was turned off, he shot Hamid and ordered us to leave the place. There's one problem," Jalil said.

"What is that?" Jackson asked, although he knew already.

"Now that Hamid is dead, and the deal is off, Shadow has no use for you," Jalil said.

"So, he sent you here to kill me?" Russell asked.

"No. They don't know I'm here. But it's only a matter of time when someone comes here for that," Jalil admitted. Russel took a deep breath.

"I don't really care. I know I'm as good as dead anyways. I've lost a lot of blood, my blood pressure is totally haywire and I have arrhythmia. For a guy with severe heart condition that's just a prelude of death," Jackson said. Jalil laid a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, sir. I had no idea," he admitted.

"You need to get all this information to POTUS," Jackson said.

"I still have no idea what Shadow is planning. There's no knowledge of what his plan is," Jalil said.

"But you think it's something big?" Russell asked.

"I think getting me into White House was a test. I think he wanted to see how hard that is," Jalil said.

"You think he is going straight for POTUS," Jackson said. It wasn't a question.

"Think the fame and glory he would get for killing the President of United States of America, the great Satan himself," Jalil said grimly.


	8. Chapter 8

Elizabeth McCord thanked her DS detail and said she would only stay home for an hour or so. Henry heard the last words and gave her a puzzled look.

"Hey, babe. Only an hour?" he asked. Bess looked around, but Jason and Stevie were nowhere in sight.

"Yea, there's bit of a situation there," she said.

"Situation?" Henry prompted.

"Russell Jackson is missing," Elizabeth said. Henry's face showed all his emotions like a slowly moving, 70-year-old animation movie. First, he almost laughed, then his jaw dropped, then the man looked absolutely stunned.

"Missing from where?" he asked, trying to make sense to what he was hearing.

"At 8 AM this morning a group of unidentified people stopped Russell's car, shot his driver and took him and the second driver as hostages. Russell was shot. He has been missing since," Elizabeth explained.

"What?!" That was Stevie. She had walked in from the TV room without either of them noticing.

"Shot? Is he even alive anymore?" Henry caught the worrying part of the information.

"We don't know. He was last seen alive on a live video conference feed around two-thirty PM today," Bess said.

"And you know he was shot because…?" Henry kept on asking.

"The CCTV that shows the kidnapping also shows a gun flash inside the car and Russell Jackson being dragged out of the car, holding his side and there was blood on the ground right at the same spot. On the video conference call with the kidnappers we saw Russell and his shirt showed us enough," Elizabeth told him. Stevie was hyperventilating. Bess walked to her and helped her sit down.

"Put your head between your knees," she said, gently massaging her back.

"You have spoken to the kidnappers?" Henry kept pressing on.

"Yes, we have. We made… kind of a deal with them, but things didn't go very well. One of the kidnappers ended up dying and the others are in the wind, with Russell," Bess admitted. Henry sat down too.

"Where are they now?" he asked. Elizabeth shook her head.

"No idea," she admitted. Stevie got up. Her eyes were swollen with tears.

"You would tell me if he was dead, wouldn't you?" she asked. Bess assured her she would.

"We just don't know," she said.

"How much of a chance he has now?" Henry asked.

"Depends if the wound was tended. If yes, then pretty good chance. If nothing was done to it, he is already dead," Bess said.

"Why was he taken?" Henry kept on inquiring.

"Long story short, the kidnappers wanted us to swap him for a prisoner."

"Yes, but why Russell? Any congressman or senator would have made the same effect. Why Jackson?" Henry wouldn't let go.

"They have no idea who he is. They figured he is someone important, but they kept calling him a clerk and said he writes POTUS's speeches, so I assume Russell has fed them that thought himself. I doubt they cared who they kidnapped as long as the person was coming from the White House," Elizabeth said. Henry took a few deep breaths.

"Baby, if I have learned anything about kidnappers and terrorists, it's that they always have a bigger plan, even if some details of the situation might show otherwise. So, if they took Russell, they didn't take him randomly. Someone is pulling strings there," Henry said. Bess made a fist.

"Yes! That is exactly what I think but if you now would be kind enough to tell me what that bigger plan IS, we might be able to find them and find Russell before his heart fails," she said.

"Why did Russell have two drivers?" Stevie asked.

"What baby?" Elizabeth asked.

"Russell? Luke's been driving him for a while I think but he's never had two drivers before," Stevie said. Bess waved her hand.

"Yeah, yeah. That Greg guy, he is new. Still in training and they wanted him to see the easy stuff before putting him in POTUS's motorcade. I met Greg last week when he was talking with Matt from my motorcade and he seemed like a nice guy," Bess said. Henry gave her a long look.

"Have you checked who this Greg guy is?" he asked. Bess sighed.

"Look, you know how the DS works. It takes months for anyone to get in and even then they start with the smaller details and…" she started listening to herself.

"That's why they took Russell. Because… he was Greg's first detail. He was the first one Greg had access to. If it had been a senator, they would have taken him," Bess continued.

"So this Greg shoots Russell and he is taken with them…" Henry started. Bess twisted her body and pointed behind her with a 'finger-gun'.

"That would have been nearly impossible from his seat. By the blood trail, Russell was sitting by the right side back door and the bullet went to his abdomen on the right side so Greg would have had to be pretty much twisted backwards to make a clean shot and Luke would have stopped him a long time before he got there," Elizabeth calculated.

"Then it was Luke who shot Russell," Henry stated. Elizabeth's nod was very slow.

"Why did they shoot Luke?" she asked.

"Perhaps shooting Russell wasn't part of the plan. I mean, at some point, everyone in the White House must have thought about shooting Jackson and most likely half of State Department's people too have had some daydreams of such, but if Luke shot Russell against orders… Elizabeth, Greg may not be the mole. Maybe it was Luke," Henry said.

"Then shooting Luke would have been a swift execution for disobeying orders," Bess said with a nod. Henry looked at her.

"What if he is not the only one?" he asked.

"The only what?" she couldn't follow his track of mind.

"The only mole in the White House."


	9. Chapter 9

Greg… Jalil Ahmed… or whoever the hell this guy was, had left the room soon after telling Russell Jackson that the mysterious 'Shadow's' plan was most likely to kill POTUS. Jackson stared at the ceiling and thought about it. Killing POTUS wasn't exactly an easy thing, not in general. Without letting his mind dwell on this particular President, Jackson thought about the ways to get the task done in the modern world. It wouldn't be easy. Nothing like the Kennedys or Lincoln… With the surveillance systems, metal detectors, all the works, killing the most powerful man in the world was not a simple job.

Unless… it was made easier by someone working close to the target. How close would close have to be? The immediate staff? Chief of Staff? Jackson snorted. They didn't even know who he was, so it seemed like they had no idea how the entire system worked. But something was there. Greg had suggested there could be someone working inside the White House already.

The agent had made it pretty clear that he wouldn't be going to POTUS until there was actually something to tell him. But Russell knew Dalton. He knew that Conrad could work with less information and his biggest asset was, and Jackson had no trouble admitting the fact, Elizabeth McCord. The woman was brilliant. Of course, he wouldn't say it to Bess, not straight to her face, simply to keep her guessing a bit, but over the time she had worked as Secretary of State she had, although infuriating him from time to time, done a pretty damned good job.

This all lead to one conclusion. If Greg wasn't going to warn POTUS, he would have to. The gag was off, and shouting was kind of out of question, since he had no idea where he was, but what he had heard over the last couple of hours made him pretty sure this place wasn't completely outside all city life. From time to time there had been sounds of cars and once he thought he heard a train. Where there were cars there were people and most people these days carried phones. They would call 911 after seeing a blood-covered man and that was all Jackson needed.

Right, so first things first. Getting up from the cot.

That seemed to be a lot harder than Jackson would have ever thought. As long as he lay absolutely still, there was no pain but at the slightest movement it felt like someone was pushing a hot iron through his side.

"Idiot! Move!" Jackson muttered to himself. Sitting up seemed impossible, so instead he rolled on his side, hissing in pain and as gently as possible dropped on the floor. He lay there panting in agony, trying to convince himself it was just to make sure nobody heard him. After what must have been at least fifteen minutes, Jackson started getting up. It probably looked a lot like he was too drunk to stand. It felt like that too. His head was spinning and only a heavy grip on the sturdy chair kept him upwards. Finally, he stood on his two, very wobbly, feet.

Next step, the window. Russell took a few testing steps and got to the next wall. There he laid his hands on the wood and moved sideways step by step. Finally, he reached the paper-covered, dirt stained glass. Very gently Jackson peeled the paper off one corner.

"Fuck…!" he hissed. The window was probably 30 feet from the ground. Using that as an exit in his condition wouldn't be foolish: it would be a suicide. He turned and faced the room. There were only walls. The ceiling was descending from the window's side and Jackson assumed that the room he was in had a counterpart behind the back wall and on the other side the ceiling would descend too. So perhaps it was an old attic. People kept all kinds of things in the attic. Like a dying White House Chief of Staff, Jackson pondered. He chuckled. Yeah, that was the kind of humor he didn't need. But attics, he reminded himself, they were often oddly built because of the space was hardly ever very practical. Slowly Russell walked sideways by the wall again and let his fingers slide over the wood panels. When he was a kid, his home had a small storage space in the attic behind his and Kenny's rooms. The long side of the house was almost useless where the ceiling descended but the short side was left with an extra space where Kenny had kept his hidden stack of magazines he never let Russell see. Feeling desperate when closing to the backwall Jackson almost prayed he would be right. And there it was. A door. Very well hidden by the matching panels but it was a small door to an extra storage space. He pulled the door open and almost choked when the dust cloud hit his face. No one had opened that door in years, maybe decades. As quietly as he could, Jackson crouched down and crawled in the storage space. He let the door close and darkness swallowed him completely. He felt the panic rising. Darkness was fine, but this kind of pitch black nothingness felt suffocating.

"Stop it you whining little rat!" he spat at himself and felt the strangling feeling vanish. Slowly he moved his hands forward one by one, touching the floor, making sure there was nothing there he could hurt himself with or cause such a noise that his escape would be cut short. When the path was clear, he crawled. Finally he reached the far end of the house. There he run his fingers over the floor until he found what he was looking for: a hatch. They had had the exactly same kind of structure at home. He would end up in the back or the front of the house far side, in a storage room most likely. He could easily remember Kenny dropping camping gear down from the hatch and then pushing it all back after a weekend in the woods. Carrying it all up and down the stairs to their rooms had just felt like too much of a hassle.

Russell Jackson laid down on the floor by the hatch. He wanted to see where it took and he also needed a break. Blood was leaking again from the wound on his side and by the way his head was spinning, he knew there wouldn't be much time to do anything.

Gathering his remaining strength Jackson slid his fingers over the hatch and found a hole just large enough to push his index finger in. Very carefully he pulled the hatch open, making sure no sudden movement would cause the hinges to squeak. The hatch rose without a sound. Darkness was as unbreakable down as it was up in the attic. Jackson knew very well he couldn't just jump down from above. If he had no idea what was under there, he would most likely end up on some old metal buckets and rise the dead from three counties over. He would need light. Checking his pockets one more time Russell had to admit there was no light to be found. His phone had vanished in the very beginning of this all and he wasn't a smoker. Calculating the odds in his mind, Jackson started turning around. He laid on his belly, let his feet slowly push through the hole and by every inch he knew that this was probably the most stupid thing he had done in his adult age. He kept on pushing. His waist was now at the edge of the hatch and he knew that it would just take a few more inches and then he would reach the point when he couldn't pull up any more. Normally maybe, but not after bleeding for hours. Besides, his upper body strength was not very mentionable anyways. The shirt made a final decision: slipping upwards it allowed his body slide down just enough and for a heart stopping moment Russell hang on just by the fingers of his right hand. Then he let go and fell unexpectedly softly on the floor. Motion energy was absorbed neatly by slightly bent knees and Jackson was able to move right to the closes wall – and a door. He felt the doorknob under his hand and touched the wall next to it. There was a shelf of some kind and a box. Carefully he put his hand in the box and felt a metal cylinder.

"Can't be," he muttered under his breath, but it was: a torch. As briefly as possible he flickered the switch and a bright LED light flooding from the flashlight blinded him for a moment. Then he turned the light to the box and found a swiss army knife.

"Regular MacGyver," he whispered to himself. Then he turned the light off and took a careful hold of the doorknob. Ever so slowly he turned it. The door opened.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey. Coffee or something stronger?" Dalton asked. Elizabeth went to the bar table and poured herself a good, stiff whiskey. Then she took the bottle with her and came to sit next to Conrad.

"We have nothing," she said. Dalton admitted as much.

"Everything was pretty clear until that Jamal's father turned up dead," POTUS said.

"What do we know?" Bess asked.

"Are we talking hard, cold facts or what we have from CCTV and such?" Conrad asked.

"Just hard, cold facts for now, please," Elisabeth said. POTUS gave her a nod and gathered his thoughts for a while.

"OK. Russell Jackson got a new driver this morning. Greg Becket, 29, a trainee. He was riding shotgun with Luke Keller who has been Russell's driver for eight or so months by now. They set off for a brunch at a harbor restaurant, but the trip was stopped by a roadside bomb…"

"Stop. The roadside bomb. Really? How did they time it so well? Trucks drive there all the time. Any of those could have set off the bomb," Elizabeth said.

"Alright so the explosives were attached to Russell's vehicle?" Conrad asked.

"More like it. Go on," Bess prompted.

"OK. The car gets stopped, and one of the drivers shoot Russell," Dalton said.

"Luke. Had to be," Elizabeth said.

"Alright. The driver's window is crashed and one of the kidnappers shoots Luke in execution style. Russell is pulled out of the car, placed in another car and they take off. They drive to an old warehouse that was used to know as wool market," POTUS kept on talking. Bess nodded.

"They take initial contact demanding a release of a prisoner. They are not afraid to hurt Russell, but seem quite reasonable and understand that if Russell dies, the deal is off," Conrad said.

"Then you go to the Federal holding and find out the prisoner they want out is mentally handicapped. The motive behind the kidnapping becomes more clear. You negotiate with the kidnapper in his native tongue and after the call Baker finds a lead on their position. A tactical team is sent to release Russell, but when they get to the wool market building, everyone has left. Everyone but the man who was our counterpart in the negotiation: he is dead. Shot in execution style," POTUS summed it all up.

"That is all we know. Do they have a new leader now? Who shot Jamal's father? Where is Greg Becket? Why there has been no new contact?" Elizabeth listed the questions as they popped to her head.

"It's 8PM. Twelve hours since Russell got shot. There's no new contact because they have no leverage. They know I would demand for proof of life," Dalton said. Elizabeth's nod was sad. Conrad Dalton had just admitted that Russell Jackson was most likely dead.

"Could they hope to get something by using Greg as a pawn for their negotiations?" Bess asked.

"I doubt it because I would have expected a contact been made by now," POTUS assumed.

"They have gone underground, and we may or may not find Russell's body one day?" McCord said. Conrad Dalton looked at her for a moment. Bess saw tears in the man's eyes. He swallowed hard.

"Yeah, that's about the sum of it," he confirmed. Gently Elizabeth took Dalton's hand.

"I'm sorry, Conrad. I know he was your friend," she said.

"I'd say, in the end, he was your friend too," Dalton replied. Elizabeth admitted as much. No matter how irritating, infuriating and outright rude Russell Jackson could be, he was nothing if not loyal and no matter how she twisted or turned it, she had to admit she had liked the little terrier. Quite a lot.


	11. Chapter 11

What the hell was this? There was a car standing on the driveway. A car. One car. There had been at least six men involved in the kidnapping and at the warehouse Jackson had seen possibly ten different men. One car…

As quietly as possible Jackson crossed the yard and walked further from the house. The driveway was long, but he could hear the traffic, so he knew there was a road ahead. Feeling energetic and amazingly pain free, Russell hurried away from his captors.

He saw the road, the car headlights and suddenly something felt wrong. How the hell did he get away so easy? The agent's… Greg's words rang in his ears. "You are not exactly a field agent, are you," the man had said. Jackson left the road and walked up a hill. Then he sat down, staring at the cars passing by.

"I'm not a field agent. Never have been. Half of the shit I did just now should have been impossible to me and much more so with…" Jackson spoke out loud to himself. Slowly he pulled the torch out of his pocket. The back room where he had ended up from the hatch had seemed untouched by anyone. It had probably been like that for years. How was there a flashlight with LED lamps and perfect, new battery to be found? How did he know what to do? It had been years since the last time he had climbed down a hatch. Years… say around 45-50 years. How did he drop on his feet and not on his ass? And then the most important question.

Why couldn't he feel the gunshot wound anymore?

Moments passed. Russell Jackson stared into oblivion.

"Am I dead?" he asked himself. He felt full of energy, almost anxious to get up and move ahead. There was no pain, no fatigue and judged by the amount of blood he had lost, there should have been just that. Jackson put the torch between his teeth and pulled the shirt up.

"What the fuck?!" he exclaimed, torch falling on the ground. The wound was almost closed. How long had he been there? He took the torch again and very carefully touched the edge of the wound. His fingers felt something hard.

"Glue? Someone glued the wound shut?!" Jackson realized he was talking out loud, but he couldn't stop himself.

"What the hell is this?" he still asked. His mind raced. His brain was under the same energetic rush as his body. And then it dawned on him.

"I've been drugged. Extacy, meth… something to keep me up and going," he said. Talking to himself didn't feel all too bad. The wound felt numb.

"Not just painkillers. Something a lot heavier. Why did they glue it shut?" he kept on thinking out loud. It felt like expressing his thoughts by talking to himself helped him slow down his racing mind.

"I'm not a field agent," he reminded himself again. Now everything started to feel wrong. He was too strong, too resourceful, too everything compared to his usual, white-collar self. He realized all too well, that whatever he had been given, was strong enough to make him think and move faster and more efficiently. He felt like he was on steroids, which of course was one option. But why? Why kidnap him and then leave him unguarded? They had to know he would go to POTUS the moment…

"By everything that is holy… " Jackson muttered.

It was all so clear to him now.

There was no other mole in the White House.

He had not escaped to tell the President his life was in jeopardy.

Just how close would be close enough.

There was no one else.

He had been let go in a very cunning and unexpected way.

Someway.

Somehow.

He was the mole.


	12. Chapter 12

Captain Baker walked in the Oval Office at midnight.

"Mr. President, Madam Secretary, I have a something something," she said.

"A something something?" Dalton asked. Baker's expression was somewhat blank.

"Well, it's a little something and it's the only something I've been able to find so it's a something something, Mr. President," she babbled.

"You need some sleep. Then again, we all do," Bess said groggily and got up from the sofa. She came to the desk where Ronnie Baker set her laptop on.

"I checked every building, even the huts around the wool market barn and I found this," Baker said and clicked a key. There was a picture of a temporary garage – looking set.

"It's been used as a mechanic shop for the motocross bikes that kids have been riding around this area. They have an unauthorized track there, but no one cares because there's no other use for that empty lot," Baker explained.

"What's this got to do with Russell?" Dalton asked.

"The motocross bikes are valuable, at least to these youths, so someone has set a security camera here by the corner of this building. I went to talk to the guy who run the shop and he let me have all his video material. It's just passing cars and people walking by, but I isolated two times. The motocross drivers are there during the weekends and sometimes in the evenings, but we are interested only in this morning and afternoon. So I checked," Baker continued and clicked a few more keys. A video started rolling. They saw three cars drive pass the camera. Two SUV's and a town car. The video time showed 8:22. At 3:08 all three cars passed by again, this time to another direction.

"I'm expecting you to explain the something," POTUS demanded. Baker looked at him.

"Yes, sir. We were able to isolate a partial license plate from the kidnapping scene by the security camera feed. The SUV here matches the partial plate," Baker said and pointed at the vehicle moving in the middle of the trio.

"So that SUV is the one where they shoved Russell in?" Bess checked. Baker nodded.

"Yes, ma'am. The first SUV's plate can also seen only partially. It's actually a Land Rover so the plate is on the right hand side and so doesn't really show on the camera," she explained. President Dalton sat on a chair and snapped his fingers. Baker looked at him.

"Baker, you're probably and most likely the smartest person in this room right now. Mostly because I know I had one drink too many and I'm not sure Bess stopped when she should have. So, make this very simple for us. Draw on crayons so to say. What is the definite something you have?" Conrad said. Baker looked at him and something softened in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. I have a bad habit of babbling. Alright. This is the definite something I have," she said and clicked a key.

They saw a house, a long driveway and a car on a picture that was clearly taken by a drone with nigh vision camera.

"That town car is the same one that is driving third in that trio," Baker said.

"When was this picture taken?" Dalton demanded.

"30… no, 40 minutes ago," Baker said.

"How do you know it's the same car?" Bess asked but Dalton raised his hand.

"No, Bess, no explanations. If she says it's the same car, it's the same car. What now?" the President asked.

"The tactical team is ready. They will breach the premises on your go, sir," Baker said.

"Go," Dalton said. Elizabeth McCord stared at him but didn't object. Dalton could probably feel her eyes burning holes to the back of his head and as soon as Baker had left the room, he looked at Bess.

"I know, Bess, I know. But I owed her an apology for before and showing her I trust her work was the way to say I'm sorry," Dalton said.

"I want to see what they find," Bess said, and Dalton also got up. They moved to the tactical center and saw the mission on full speed.

"Three men taken in custody. We are still searching…" the team commander's report was interrupted when someone came to him.

"Sir, you need to see this!" an enthusiastic voice said. The commander followed his man and they saw a staircase on the live video feed. Powerful torches made the place look almost white. The commander stepped into a room with descending ceiling and he looked around.

"The cot, sir," a soldier said. There was a low cot on one side of the room.

"It's covered in blood," the commander said. There was a water bottle standing on the floor beside the bed and then the commander's attention was drawn to the wall where they saw bloody handprints.

"Sir, there's a door here," one of the men said and weapons turned to cover the entrance. The man pulled the storage space door open.

"Dust and dirt, but also a trail. Someone's crawled here. And there's blood," the man said.

"Check it," the commander said and the soldier got on all fours. A moment later he said.

"There's an open hatch here. Someone went through it. There's blood on the side here and fingerprints from one hand. Under it… that's a storage room of some kind," the soldier's voice could be hears from the speakers.

"Don't go through the hatch. We'll use the stairs," the commander said.

"Stop for a moment. Let us see the room," Bess asked. The commander stopped and turned in the room very slowly.

"Nothing to indicate it's been Russell," Dalton said.

"Commander, how tall are you?" Elizabeth asked.

"6'1"," the commander said.

"How high on the wall are those bloody handprints?" Bess inquired. The commander looked at them so the people in the tactical center could also see. Then the man nodded.

"I get what you mean, ma'am. They were probably left by a 5'6"-5'7" tall person. Could be a woman," the commander said.

"Russell is 5'7" or so," Bess said.

"5'6 ¾" really," President Dalton corrected with a hint of smile.

"How soon we can verify that blood belongs to Russell?" he asked the commander.

"We need a CSU team here. Not long after that," the man said.

"OK, the storage room," Dalton said. The commander went back to the staircase and down the stairs. The storage room door was open and so was the back door.

"There's a bloody hand print on the doorknob," one of the soldiers said.

"Check for footprints. I know it's hard in the night time. Then get us some dogs here. They will find him," the commander said.

"What about the men you caught from there?" McCord asked.

"Two Arabs and a guy who says his name is Greg Becket," the commander said.

"Were did you find them?" Elizabeth inquired.

"They were all downstairs."

"Was Greg Becket tied up or did he seem to be in distress?" the Secretary continued.

"No, ma'am. He had a can of beer in his hand when we came in," the commander said.

"Son of a bitch!" Dalton muttered.

"Bring them all in and put them in separate holding cells. I think we need to have a little chat with this Greg Becket," McCord demanded.

"Yes, ma'am," the commander acknowledged, and the video went dark.

* * *

One hour later Elizabeth McCord sat in an interrogation room with Greg Becket. The man was smiling.

"Hi, Greg, you seem happy," Dalton heard Bess say. He was standing in the next room, watching the interrogation through a video screen and the two-way mirror.

"Hello, Madam Secretary, it's nice to see you again," Greg said.

"Yes, I heard you've had quite an adventure. I just am pretty puzzled about your role in all this," Bess admitted. Greg nodded.

"You got your man back. Sorry about the hole in him. But he should be OK if his heart can take it…," the man seemed to be laughing.

"Did you perform drug tests on this guy?" Dalton asked the officer who was standing in the control room with him.

"Yes. He is high as a kite and drunk, so this interrogation is in no way legal," the man said. Dalton nodded.

"We understand. All we want from him is a hint of where our friend might be," he said. The officer didn't object.

Obviously, Greg didn't know that Russell had left the building before the tactical team got there so Bess decided to leave things that way.

"Yes, he is alright. The president is with him. You know they are pretty good friends, right?" Elizabeth asked.

"President Dalton is with him? With Jackson?" Greg asked. The man's eyes were starting to look a bit wild.

"Yes," Bess said. Greg started laughing hysterically.

"Where are they. Oval Office?" Greg asked. Bess calculated the situation. There was something very strange about this.

"Yes. At the Oval Office," she confirmed. Greg's laughter turned into howls of joy.

"He did it! He fucking did it! I could have never thought it would work! Fucking cool!" the man yelled.

"Greg, could you let me in this… whatever this is?" Bess asked. Greg tried to pull himself together.

"It's so fucking cool! That's why we glued the wound so he wouldn't be taken to the hospital. Damn! Shadow knew he's want to see the prez right away so he said stop the bleeding. Damn! Never thought it would work! Shit he is brilliant!" Greg celebrated. Bess bit her lip a bit. Then she laid a careful, gentle and quite seductive hand on Greg's shoulder.

"Greg, the plan seems like a masterpiece. Could you… please… tell me too?" she said. Her smile was equally seductive. Greg almost drooled.

"Okay, Ma'am Sec, okay. See Shadow's been thinking how the hell we kill the prez. It's not like shootin' the guy would be easy these days or nothin'. So he said we gotta use somethin' more modern. You know em little trackin devises they put in everything like phones and stuff these days? You know you can get them real small now. So we just had to get someone in a room with the prez you know," Greg babbled. He had slipped to street type of talk and forgotten all about his sophisticated cover.

"What's the deal? Now that Russ is with the prez, what happens?" Bess asked, adjusting to the manner of speech. Greg giggled.

"They die!" Greg screamed happily.

"What?! How?" McCord asked. Her hand caressed Greg's ear. Greg leaned in like telling her a secret.

"Mister Jackson had this little accident with a bullet. Oops! Shadow wanted that there. The hole. We need that hole. You have any idea how small they can make these nerve gas cartridges these days…?" Greg giggled again.

"So there's nerve gas and a tracking device in Jackson. What else?" Bess asked.

"Just a tiny little thing that makes the ball pop when he walks in the Oval office… or oops, I think he already did. Then his body becomes very damn toxic waste and fast," Greg said. It all sound like a bad science fiction movie.

"How do you mean?" Bess asked.

"The pop tears the wound open and even if it didn't the acid in the ball burns enough to let the gas out and they die. It's really fast. It happens right when he steps into Oval office so it's been done. Sorry ma'am but your pal the prez is dead," Greg laughed.

"What's the exposure?" Elizabeth asked.

"Shadow says maybe a dozen. All those who walk in the Oval office in the next few hours. They wanted to make it a permanent thing, but I guess those kinds of chemical stuff can't live forever. Damn if I know. It's so fucking cool! Can't you see it? Killed by your own damn clerk!" Greg laughed again. The man was insane.

Bess stepped out of the interrogation room. Dalton was standing in the corridor looking grim.

"Is that even fucking possible?" he asked.

"I don't know. Greg seems to think it is," Bess said.

"We better ask someone," Dalton said and took his phone.

"Commander, if you guys find Russell Jackson, do not and I repeat do not approach him," the President said and cut the call short.

"A tracking device, cartridge of nerve gas and a tiny explosive. How large would that be?" Bess asked.


	13. Chapter 13

Elizabeth McCord felt genuinely sorry for the professor someone had dragged out of bed and brought to the White House in the middle of the night. The man looked to be in his 70s and he seemed like a very sophisticated, kind gentleman. They had explained him the question at hand.

"I'm very sorry, professor Griscom. Our question is probably absolutely weird, but can it be done?" president Dalton asked. The professor was standing up and Elizabeth gave the man a chair. He looked at her, smiled and thanked. They all sat down. Griscom scratched his grey stubble. Obviously, no-one had given him time to shave before taking him to the White House to meet the president.

"May I have a piece of paper and a pen, Mr. President?" the professor asked softly. Dalton gave him a stack of paper and a pen box.

"Now, may I ask you to describe this… device you mean?" Griscom inquired.

"A device with a tracking device, a cartridge with some kind of nerve gas and an explosive large enough to open a wound that has been glued shut," Bess said.

"And acid of some kind," Dalton recalled. Griscom waved his hand a bit.

"The nerve gas itself can be acid enough. If it is made so that it would react with fluid, like human blood, it would turn into gas by a chemical reaction right after the cartridge was broken," Griscom said. He was drawing something on the paper. The man's left hand was shaking but the right one seemed steady and the shapes he drew were precise.

"The tracking device could be made about a size of a quarter. A bit thicker because it would need energy from a battery but those slim little batteries you have in electronic house hold scales would do. That would have a lifespan of six to seven days because there is no way to turn it off, I assume," Griscom was mostly talking to himself. Then he turned the paper a little and continued drawing. The shaking of his left hand was turning into trembling.

"Professor Griscom, are you alright?" Bess asked. The older man looked at her with a kind smile.

"Thank you, Madam Secretary. It is just my medicine. I did not have time to take it when they took me here," he said.

"I will have someone get it," Dalton said.

"No, no, Mr. President. I have it with me. May I ask for a glass of water?" the professor asked. Dalton got up and went to get the water. He poured some to a glass and brought the glass to Griscom.

"Thank you, Mr. President. This is quite backwards," the professor said.

"How so?" Dalton asked.

"I believe it is usually not you who brings water to the people," Griscom said with a mischievous smile. Dalton laughed a bit and patted the man's shoulder.

"This time it is my honor," he said. Griscom nodded smiling and then he turned back to the drawing.

"The cartridge would have to be at least one inch long. I would say about the size of a riffle bullet," the professor kept going. Then he drew the cartridge and turned the paper again.

"What did you say the third thing was? Explosive?" he asked.

"Yes," Bess said. Griscom leaned back. His head was tilting from side to side.

"Professor?" Dalton worried. Griscom looked at him and smiled a bit.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. This is me thinking," he said. Dalton laughed.

"Alright, think away, professor," he said.

"How long of a life span they expected?" Griscom asked. Elizabeth looked at Dalton.

"24 hours maybe?" she said.

"Then the tracking device and the explosive would use the same energy source. If the nerve gas is strong enough acid, no explosive is really needed, all they need is an electrical charge to break the cartridge… This is…" Griscom was thinking out loud. Then the man shook his head.

"No? Can't be done?" Dalton asked. Griscom looked at him.

"It can be done. It wouldn't be easy or and even at best it's not very reliable I think but it probably could be done," the professor said.

"Why you shook your head then," Dalton wanted to know.

"Because who ever created that device is a mad dog and should be shot like one. My God what has become of us people. The person carrying that weapon will die and anyone in a at least 50 feet radius around him when the cartridge breaks. Obviously, it is meant to break when he reaches some specific destination. If it is a shopping mall on a busy Saturday, he could kill dozens of people. And even if he didn't reach the destination, he most likely will die," Griscom said.

"Why?" Bess asked.

"Just falling down could break the nerve gas cartridge. It can't be made of anything very resilient if they expect it to break out of electrical charge. Glass is my best bet. It would break if someone hit the person carrying it," the professor explained.

"Just how small could all this be?" Dalton asked and pointed at the drawing. Griscom looked at him.

"Give me a week to build it and I will fit it all in a golf ball," the professor said.


	14. Chapter 14

"I remember this young man," professor Griscom said looking at the framed picture of President Dalton. He was a lot younger there, it had been taken in Vietnam during the war. Bess came to stand by him.

"You remember him?" she asked. Griscom smiled and laughed gently.

"Yes. He went all Humphrey Bogart on a nurse there," he said.

"What?" Elizabeth asked looking puzzled. Griscom leaned on the low cabinet.

" _Sabrina, 1954_. The movie theatre at the base had just shown the Bogart, Hepburn movie a couple of nights before. We had no flutes, no champagne there but young Mr. Dalton found two bottles of beer and he shoved those in his back pockets, trying to pass as the ever-so-handsome Bogart. Unfortunately, the nurse had a very hot-blooded, jealous boyfriend there and Mr. Dalton ended up on his buttocks on a concrete landing pad for choppers. Even a beer bottle can't take that. I spent a good portion of the evening, digging brown pieces of glass from Mr. Dalton's rear end…" Griscom told Elizabeth.

"Doctor Bunny-ears!" they heard President Dalton's voice from the door. The man walked in looking at Griscom in amazement. The professor's expression was pained.

"Oh, please don't call me that, Mr. President," he pleaded.

"Everyone else, all the doctors, all the nurses always held up two fingers and asked how many fingers the patient could see but not Doctor Bunny-ears! He always asked: 'How many Bunny-ears you see?' He even asked that from a general once. The man's jeep had been hit and they brought him in for a quick check up. Doctor here walks in, raises two fingers and asks: 'How many bunny-ears you see?' The general was completely humorless and yelled 'Man, has the jungle turned you into a carnival performer? I see no bunny-ears! I see two of your fingers sticking up and I don't care what you want to call them. To me they are fingers and if you are smart, from now on you will call them that too!'," Dalton imitating a general from his memory.

"Did you call them fingers from that on?" Bess asked. Griscom made a little pffft-sound.

"I don't care what the general thought he saw. For me they are bunny-ears," the man said and smiled. Dalton walked to the professor and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"It is good to see you, Dr. Griscom. I am sorry I didn't remember you right away," he said. Griscom laughed a little.

"You didn't see me all that much. I saw a bit too much of you there, Mr. President," the man said. Dalton laughed sheepishly.

"I should order that story as a national secret," he said.

"Oh, please don't! It was very good. So, Sabrina?" Bess said. Her face was beaming with a mischievous smile.

"Yes. Sabrina from 1954. Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn. A wonderful movie really and believe me, or Mr. President is not the only one who has tried the flute trick," professor Griscom said. His hands had started to shake again. Bess lead him to the sofa.

"You need to get some rest. I am sorry for all this," Dalton said and sat on the other sofa.

"It is alright. If there is anything I can help you with, I am here for you," Griscom assured them.

"You said it could be as small as a golf ball?" Bess asked. Griscom nodded.

"Think of the physical aspects of the situation. This man… I'm sorry, I mean your friend who was captured…" the professor said.

"Jackson. Russell Jackson," Dalton said.

"Yes, Mr. Jackson… wait? Jackson? White House Chief of Staff?" Griscom looked at them in horror.

"Yes," Bess said. They could almost see Griscom's brain turn on higher gear.

"So, it's not a shopping mall they are targeting, it's the White House?" Griscom assumed.

"Yes, that is what we think," Dalton said. Griscom looked around him and then his eyes stopped at the ventilation system.

"That is probably pretty effective?" he said.

"Not as effective as I would sometimes hope but it's not bad either," Dalton said. Griscom's nod was grim.

"Even if he came into this room and the cartridge was popped inside him, the gas could be sucked into the ventilation system and effect the entire building in minutes," the professor said.

"I think that is part of their plan," Bess said.

"Is there any way to stop this? I mean save Russell? Get that damn thing out of him?" Dalton asked. Griscom got up, went to get the papers from the desk and sat back down.

"Run the time frame by me again. When was he shot?"

"Pretty close to 8 AM," Dalton said.

"When did you see him on the video call?"

"First around 1 PM, then close to 2:30 PM," Bess told Griscom. The man wrote the numbers down.

"Was there any change between how he looked at 1 PM and at 2:30 PM?" the professor asked.

"No, he was pretty much the same," Dalton said, and Bess nodded.

"I agree."

"It is dangerous to make assumptions like this but whatever was done to him, must have happened pretty fast. I think that rules out a long, difficult surgery. I think, if this was done, it was done by simply placing a device inside his body, probably using the already-existing bullet hole. Human skin stretches pretty easily so the object may have been a lot larger than a bullet. Now, what is this Mr. Jackson like? Enthusiastic jogger? Does he play tennis? Physically active in other ways? Marathon runner? How old is he" Griscom asked.

"Almost 60. None of that. He works 16 hour days, eyes glued to his cellphone and the only jogging he does is running from meeting to meeting," Dalton said.

"He has been walking a lot more since the heart attack," Bess noted.

"Oh yes, the steps… the pace-thingy," Dalton remembered.

"How long ago he had that heart attack?" Griscom asked.

"Just before the house voted me for second term," the President said. Griscom scratched his stubble again.

"I can't really remember him. I mean I don't think we have ever met but I mean even from TV or anything. How tall is he?" the professor said. Dalton and McCord understood the man was getting at something.

"He is a short man. Thin, probably 140 lbs, perhaps a bit more," Dalton said.

"So, my size?" Griscom asked. Dalton looked at the man and laughed a little.

"Actually, yes. Very much so," he said. Bess nodded too.

"OK so man with heart condition, blood pressure issues too, I'm sure, thin, short… been shot almost 24 hours ago. They probably didn't do much to the inside so there is most likely an infection brewing there. Or they used a disinfectant which would slow that down. Then they popped in that device. If they had time and money, we can talk about a golf ball size item. They place it inside and glue the wound shut. That wouldn't take out the effects of the blood loss. By this time Mr. Jackson should be unable to move due to that," Griscom said.

"What would keep him going?" Dalton asked.

"Drugs. I don't mean over-the-counter painkillers or even prescription. I talk about high dose of meth, perhaps even cocaine or other illegal drugs that would give him the illusion of strength. How did he escape?" Griscom asked.

"He crawled through a storage space, went down through a hatch and walked out of a door," Bess said.

"What was he before this job? A secret agent?" Griscom asked.

"No, nothing like that," Dalton said.

"So, no real explanation to why he turned all 007 James Bond all of the sudden?" the professor inquired.

"None."

"Only explanation then is drugs. Something to give him such a good high that he can completely forget the pain, the blood loss and most likely his wildly racing heart which is painful too. Then I believe the idea was to have him come straight to the White House to kill… I'm sorry, but I think it's you Mr. President he was supposed to kill with this device," Griscom assumed.

"We figured as much," Dalton said.

"My question is: if he escaped, why didn't he come back?" McCord asked. Griscom sighed.

"Either the cartridge has been broken and he is already dead or the drugs ran off so he collapsed. Third option is he is actually still on his way here and the fourth option is that he vanished on his own accord," the professor said.

"What do you mean on his own accord?" Dalton asked.

"He works for you but is he also your friend?" Griscom asked. Dalton nodded.

"He is. A damn good friend too," the President said.

"Then if he, somehow, got wind of this plot and realized he was going to be used as a weapon to kill you, his choice would most likely be to go as far from you as possible," Griscom said.

"You are right," Bess said.

"He can live some time with a time bomb like that inside his belly, or he may just try to go far enough to make sure he won't poison anyone," the professor assumed.

"I know Russell. He would never come anywhere close to the White House if he thought it would put me or anyone else at risk," Dalton said.

"Or home. He wouldn't go to Carol," Bess said.

"True. But he might search for someone who could cut that thing out of him," Griscom suggested.

"Could he have realized there was something put inside him?" Dalton asked.

"If he is sane enough to realize that the wound should still be bleeding, he will notice the glue and start asking questions," Griscom said.

"Where would he go?" Bess asked.

"Where was he last seen?" the professor asked.

"At a house where we found the man who told us about this whole, science fiction -style plot," Dalton said. Griscom nodded.

"Take me there. I will need to stop at my house but it's best to start from there," he said.

"I don't understand," Bess said.

"The moment he is found, dead or alive, the device must be cut out of him and pray the cartridge isn't broken. I have performed many emergency surgeries in less than neat conditions. You will need me. Also, I have the best chances to make the device harmless," Griscom added. Dalton got up and took his phone.

"I need my motorcade, now," he barked to whoever answered and took his coat.

"So, we are going to the house?" Bess asked, baffled.

"Point last seen, Bess. It's the best place to start," Dalton confirmed.


	15. Chapter 15

It wasn't all so difficult to figure it out in the end. Everything sort of pointed that way. The glued wound, the superman powers he had felt the last few hours. They had given him something that would turn him into a weapon. Most likely a virus. Ebola, Jackson thought and got up. Not that Ebola would have given him the powers… no, that was drugs. Meth… cocaine even. Damn, there were some things even a street fighter like him didn't do in the early 70's. Cocaine was one of those things. Reliving the youth he didn't exactly live, eh?

Whatever the drug was, there was plenty of it in his system. It was hard to define the distance he had walked since leaving the house, but he had crossed the highway and made it over a river. That he did to throw the dogs off his trail. There would be dogs, he was sure of it. When he had left the house his most urgent desire was to find someone who would call 911 for him. Now he did his best to avoid people who might just do that. He had to stay away from people. Whatever this was that they had put in him, it could kill others too, not just POTUS.

"Carol," Jackson said to himself. He wanted to talk to her. Bit over 22 years ago he had figured after his first marriage, that had started like a dream but ended worse than Nightmare On Elm Street, that he would never love again. Then Carol had showed up in his life and things had changed. Now that he was out of the hell house, he realized he didn't want to die without thanking Carol. Without telling her how he felt.

The signs for the camping site appeared just after crossing a dirt road. If it was big enough site, he might find a payphone there. Jackson realized the drug, whatever it was, had started to wear off fast. It was only a matter of time before he would collapse. He saw the camping site already. There was a building and a huge sign advertising a telephone.

"Thank God…" Russell whispered. Breathing heavily he dragged his feet and forced himself to go on.

"Just a while longer," he pushed himself. Then the hut was there and he reached the phone. He took the handle and pressed for operator.

"Op…operator, I need to… call collect," he panted. Damn, this was again something he hadn't done since the youth years.

"What is the number and what is your name?" the operator's cool voice asked. Jackson had to think for a while, then he gave her their home number and his name.

"Hold on," he heard the operator say. His vision started to get blurred. It wasn't the lack of eyeglasses, this was something else.

"No no no no…" he whispered to himself and let himself slide on the ground. Sitting down made him feel better for a moment. The call went through.

"Russell?" Carol's voice was horrified.

"Yeah… hey… I know… I know… things are… " Russell panted.

"Where are you love? I will call Conrad…"

"No! No… you can't… I can't go anywhere near him…" Russell tried to explain.

"What are you talking about, Russell?" Carol asked. Her voice was trembling.

"It's… it's too long a story… I can't… I don't have… I can't tell you… But I need to tell you this… "

Russell stopped. The pain was overwhelming.

"Russell?!" Carol's voice was rising.

"Carol, I love you. Thank you. I love you so much. Thank you…" Russell panted. Then the phone fell from his hands and he fell.

"Russell?! Russell!" Carol shouted on the phone but there was no answer.


	16. Chapter 16

At the end of the driveway there was a house. Several vehicles stood by it, all but one owned by the government. Dalton, wearing a marine blue windbreaker stepped out on the yard and looked around. Several eyes locked on him and Secretary McCord who followed the President. A young, eager marine helped professor Griscom out of the vehicle and took the equipment the professor had insisted on getting from his home.

"Let's go in," Dalton said.

The house looked dark and dusty but there were no loose items laying around.

"Someone cleaned this place up and then let the dust settle," McCord said. Dalton nodded.

"The three men were found from this room," tactical team leader Williams said and pointed at a door. Dalton walked to his direction and looked in.

"Can we go in?" he asked.

"Yes. It's all been photographed, and the CSU took prints," Williams assured him. Several beer cans stood on a table close to the window. Some were full, some empty. They saw food wrappers.

"McDonald's, KFC… they didn't really believe in home cooking," Elizabeth said.

"There's a trash can in the corner. Knowing how men usually eat, of course my guys are like horses when they see food, but still, there isn't much of anything here, so I'd say they never planned to stay for more than a day," Williams offered.

"Did they all drink beer or did Greg take care of that part?" McCord pondered out loud.

"The man we know as Greg was holding a beer can when we came in, but another guy had a can by his foot," Williams said.

"Not the most fundamentalist Muslims then," Dalton noted.

"Where did they keep… the prisoner?" Elizabeth asked.

"Follow me," Williams said and lead them to the staircase. They got to the second floor and Williams pointed at another open door. They went in. Dalton walked to the cot and looked at it. The bright floodlights showed a grotesque piece of art: The mattress and the thin blanket were painted with blood. Professor Griscom stood still.

"It's been a while," he said.

"A while?" Elizabeth asked. Griscom looked at her with a sad smile.

"After Vietnam I worked as an ME for a while. Wasn't really my cup of tea, but life just put me there. I haven't seen a crime scene in years," the older man said. Elizabeth laid her hand carefully on his arm.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Griscom nodded.

"Yes, Madam Secretary, I'm alright. Or I will be," he assured her. Then the man seemed to shake the gloom off his shoulders. He went closer to the wall, pulled a rubber glove on and measured the bloody handprint with his own hand.

"This could very well be left by someone my height," he said. Then he turned to see the cot.

"You said he weighs 140 pounds or so? So, he is thinner than I am," Griscom asked. Dalton looked at the man.

"Perhaps the middle section… I'm sorry, that was rude," he said. Griscom laughed.

"It's fine. I like food," he admitted freely. Then he walked to the cot and picked up the water bottle. He opened it and took a vial that contained colorless liquid, from his bag that the young marine had brought upstairs for him. The professor poured a few drops of water from the bottle to the vial, put a cork on the vial and then closed the water bottle. He shook the vial and looked at the liquid turn purple.

"Well that's not 100 % H2O," he muttered. Then he turned to Williams.

"Do you know if the CSU checked the bottle?" he asked.

"I do not know," Williams admitted.

"Please find out. I'd like to know which drug he was given," Griscom said.

"Why?" Dalton asked.

"The heart condition. If his heart stops, I don't want to make things worse by trying to resuscitate him without knowing what kind of stuff he has in his system," the professor said. Dalton looked at Elizabeth. They were, or at least had been pretty sure that Russell Jackson was already dead. Professor Griscom's working hypothesis was that Jackson was alive and waiting to be rescued. Dalton walked out.

"Excuse me," Elizabeth said to Griscom and went after him. He found the President outside from the back yard, taking deep, steadying breaths.

"I'm sorry Bess. I… I don't know how many times I can take it," Dalton said. Elizabeth followed his line of thinking.

"I know… we were sure he is dead and now Griscom makes us think perhaps he isn't and what comes next? Another reason to believe he is dead?" McCord said. Dalton nodded.

"He is sometimes so… infuriating in his… just the way he is," the President tried to explain.

"Henry said that… probably every White House employee and most of those who work at the State Department have at least fantasized of shooting Russell at some point… I guess I still can't believe it actually happened," Bess admitted. Dalton laughed helplessly.

"I haven't really wanted to shoot him I think, but sometimes words fail me, and I actually think about punching his lights out. Then… a few hours or a few days later it comes out he was right. That's almost the most irritating part. That he is almost always right in the end," Dalton admitted.

"He is like this little terrier with a bone when he starts on something. He just can't let go until he has chewed the issue through and through," Elizabeth said. Dalton laughed again.

"A terrier… yeah, that's what he is. Fierce and loyal. Bess… I can't let myself hope… I can't let the thought in my head that he might actually be alive," the President said, and the laughter turned into tears. They stood there next to each other and Elizabeth McCord let Conrad Dalton mourn for his friend.

After a while Bess returned inside. Griscom was still going through the small room Russell had been kept in.

"I'm sorry if I said something wrong," Griscom said right away when she walked in. Bess patted his arm.

"He and I were or actually are pretty sure that Russell is dead. It's pretty hard to actually hope he might not be and know that most likely he still is," Elizabeth tried to explain. Griscom nodded.

"I had a terrible sense of humor as a doctor and as an ME it turned from bad to worse. Corpse-jokes are the most horrible ones. I'm sorry. I promise to think everything I say, twice," the older man said. Bess shook her head.

"You didn't say anything wrong. It's just the hope you give us by talking of Russell like he was alive," she said.

"Understood, Madam Secretary. May we go out?" the professor asked.

"Sure," she said, and they returned to Dalton.

"I am sorry, Mr. President," Griscom said. Dalton shook his head.

"It's alright. I'm a big baby here," he said.

"I would… do this by myself but I don't know him at all and you do," the professor said carefully.

"Yes?" Dalton asked. Griscom took a stick and drew an X to the sand of the yard. Then he drew a circle around the X, then bigger one around the first and more and more until he had five circles there with an X in the middle.

"This X is this house. Here's the driveway," Griscom added the road to the drawing. Then he looked up, measured distances and drew another line.

"This is the highway and I know there's a river running just beyond the highway there," he said and drew the river there too.

"Which direction would you go to?" he asked Elizabeth.

"I think…" Dalton started.

"Not to be rude, but no. Don't think. Let her think, Mr. President. Which direction?" Griscom asked again and pointed at Elizabeth with the stick. She looked at the drawing, then she looked around and pointed at the road.

"This way he has the highest possibility to meet someone who would call 911 for him," she said. Then she raised her hand.

"No, wait. If he knows what's inside him, he would go to the opposite way," she admitted.

"Mr. President?" Griscom asked. Dalton nodded.

"Exactly the same thought," he said.

"So, he either went to the river or 180 degrees to the opposite way. Instead of 360 degrees around the house, we now have two sectors, each perhaps 10 degrees wide to search," Griscom said.

"I thought you said assuming is dangerous?" Dalton grilled the man. Griscom's laugh was joyless.

"We have to start somewhere, and 20 degrees beats 360 degrees any day," the man said.

"So which way we go?" Bess asked. Griscom looked around very slowly. He rubbed his palms together and then he looked at Dalton.

"This is on me, but I would go to the river," he said.

"Why?" Dalton asked. Griscom started walking to the car.

"Because I think that when he left the house, he had no idea what was going on. If he figured it out, it happened somewhere between the river and the house and then would know that most likely the search party would get dogs. By an old inaccurate information, I'm sure he would try to cross the river to throw the dogs off scent," the professor said and reached POTUS's motorcade.

"How far do we go?" Elizabeth asked. Dalton's phone rang.

"Damn, it's Carol," he said. Griscom's face looked puzzled so Bess leaned closer.

"Russell's wife," she said.

"Carol, I'm sorry…. what!? When? Where?" Dalton's questions were endless. Then he dropped the phone to his pocket.

"Russell called her, collect, from a camping site about 8 clicks north from here," he said.

"Just beyond the river," Bess said. Dalton looked at Griscom.

"Looks like you would have been right," he said. Then he informed the tactical team.

"Tell them to stay far! Keep a distance!" Griscom said. Dalton nodded. Griscom took a hold of his arm.

"Mr. President, I mean… dead or alive he is a ticking time bomb. Make sure they stay clear," he said. Dalton called Williams again and told him the same thing.


	17. Chapter 17

"The call came from a camping site payphone. We are only two clicks out!" the tactical team commander said.

"Do not approach him. Professor Griscom, what is the safe distance," Dalton asked.

"Tell them to stay at least 350 feet away and make sure the wind isn't blowing their way," the professor said. Bess took the man's hand. They were sitting on the back seat of POTUS's vehicle, and the driver accelerated evenly.

"Same goes for us. 350 feet at least," Griscom said.

"Heard that?" Dalton asked his DS detail.

"Yes, sir," the driver said.

They reached the camping site. Everything was quiet. Slowly everyone exited the vehicle. Williams handed a binocular to the President.

"What am I looking at?" Dalton asked.

"On the ground, by the payphone," Williams said. Dalton raised the binoculars. He could see soles of shoes, and most likely black pants. The picnic tables were blocking rest of the view

"Is it him?" Griscom asked.

"There's really no way to tell," Dalton admitted.

"Where do you want this?" the young marine asked, holding professor Griscom's equipment bag. The older man took off his long coat and tapped his own left shoulder.

"Right here," he said. The marine looked at him puzzled. Now Griscom turned to look at Dalton and Elizabeth.

"Mr. President, Madam Secretary, it has been very interesting," he said.

"What?" Elizabeth asked, looking at the professor in awe. Griscom moved slightly so that one of the massive DS agents stood between him and Dalton.

"I could give a very heart breaking, overly patriotic speech about how I feel like I am doing my duty and saving the President and the day and all that, but in the end, it just comes to the very simple things. You are much younger than I am, you have kids, you have spouses and you have a lot to do still. I am an old man. I've seen… I think what there is to see, really. That is why, agents, I trust you to protect Mr. President and Madam Secretary from themselves and make sure they stay here. I will go there and see if there is anything that can be done," Griscom said.

"You can't go there alone!" Dalton yelled. Professor Griscom looked at him gently.

"Why not? There is no way I will ask this young marine to put his life on line on an issue like this. You are very right, Mr. President. Most likely Jackson there is dead, and my only task is to extract the device to stop it from spreading the gas anywhere. There is a slight chance it could reach a human being before vaporizing to oblivion. Ask you to go with me? What could you do? Unless you have some hidden medical or scientific training no one knew about, what good you would do there, except risk your life? Same goes for Madam Secretary here. If she is not able to perform a surgery on the field, she would mostly just be on my way. In the end… no one has to die, I suppose but as long as there is the risk, I would rather have it be just one of us taking the chance. Going very Alexandre Dumas on you here. All for one and one for all, eh? Now, please stop arguing about this. The bag here weighs a ton and I'm sure you would like me to have most of my strength still when I reach Mr. Jackson there," Griscom said. It seemed like the DS detail had paid most attention to his speech. The moment Griscom turned to walk away, they stepped forward to make sure that Dalton and McCord wouldn't move an inch. Dalton looked at the head of his detail with fury in his eyes.

"Mr. President, I'm sorry but he is right. Sometimes… I have to protect you from yourself," the man said.

* * *

Professor Griscom's steady pace did not falter. He walked evenly to the picnic tables and laid the heavy bag on one. Then he went to the body by the wall. The tables blocked the view from the vehicles.

"Shit! I can't see!" Dalton said. Bess had understood the logic behind Griscom's words.

"I know, Conrad, but… we just have to wait," she said quietly. Dalton looked at her. He too knew very well how right the professor had been, but it still didn't feel right to let the old man take the risk for them.

* * *

Griscom laid gentle fingers on Jackson's neck. He could feel the thin, rapid pulse.

"Alright, Mr. Jackson, seems like there's still some life in you," he spoke out loud and pulled Jackson's shoulder to set him on his back on the ground. He got up and took some things out of his back.

"This here is a blanket. I will put it under you, so you won't get any more sand in that wound of yours," Griscom talked, even though he knew Jackson wouldn't hear him. He moved calmly and spoke with quiet, soothing voice. Then he cut open what was left of Jackson's blood soaked shirt and laid it aside.

"Very neat wound. I wonder if you have noticed that there is something in there," he kept on talking. Then he opened a small kit that included a scalpel, curved needle for sewing and thread. He splashed disinfectant on Jackson's belly around the wound and pushed in a syringe.

"It is local anesthetic, although I am not sure if you can feel anything anymore. Your body temperature is around 104 probably, so I would assume there is a massive infection brewing there. Just try to hold on for a while longer, Mr. Jackson," Griscom spoke gently. Then he took the scalpel. His left hand was trembling violently, but the right one holding the scalpel was as steady as if it was made of stone.

"Alright, Mr. Jackson," he said and laid the blade on the pale, sweating skin. The cut was superficial and neat.

"I do not want to cut too deep at once. Firs,t I better find what I'm looking for," he said. Jackson moved. Griscom laid a hand on his chest.

"Mr. Jackson, can you hear me?" he asked. The man's eyes opened.

"Wha…what…what you do…" Jackson stammered. Griscom patted his chest.

"My name is professor Griscom. You have something here inside you, that shouldn't be there," he explained something that couldn't really be explained.

"Wha… how… what…" Jackson kept on stammering. Griscom bit his lip. He should do this fast and make sure Jackson wouldn't move any more.

"Mr. Jackson, can you hear me?" he asked. After a while Jackson's eyes locked with his.

"Yes?" Griscom prompted. Jackson nodded.

"Good. I need you to hold absolutely still now. Do not move a muscle. Give me that and I will explain you everything in fifteen minutes, alright?" he said. Russell Jackson tried to reply, but then he finally passed out.

"Good, good," Griscom said and concentrated on the operation again.

He cut deeper and deeper, small, careful cuts and finally: there it was. Definitely something that shouldn't have been there. Very slowly Griscom pushed his fingers inside the wound and deep enough to get a hold of the object. As lightly as possible he moved it a bit, got a good hold of the box and started pulling it out.

It wasn't a golf ball. It was slightly bigger and shape of a cylinder. He could see the glass cartridge holding liquid and almost quarter size round little object, that must have been the tracking device. Griscom got up very slowly, went to the picnic table and placed the device in a container. He closed the lid as tightly as he could and sealed the container with tape. Then the older man sat on a bench and took a deep breath. He didn't bother to sew or glue the wound: the doctors would cut it open anyways at the hospital. After a few moments he got up and waved his hand to the vehicles. The President's motorcade drove closer and then he saw a van move in too. Tactical team men came with stretchers. They eased Jackson's immobile body on them and heaved him in the van.

"Is he dead?" Dalton asked, getting out of the SUV. Griscom looked at him.

"He had a pulse a few moments ago, but the wound is badly infected. Badly enough for me to smell it. He is also running a high fever. It may be too late," the professor said. Elizabeth McCord laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Professor Griscom, are you alright?" she asked. Griscom nodded and smiled.

"Not something I would like to do every day, but a good bit of excitement," he said. Gently Elizabeth McCord hugged the older man. Dalton touched Griscom's shoulder.

"Thank you," he said. The professor's left hand trembled violently.

"I do not mean to be rude, but may I sit down?" he asked.

"Of course," Dalton said and walked him to the SUV. The professor seemed to have aged some few years in the last 30 minutes.

"Certainly not something I would want to re-live," Griscom admitted. Dalton patted his shoulder.

"Thank you, professor Bunny-ears," he said. Griscom laughed.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?" he asked.

"Not as long as I live," Dalton assured him.


	18. Chapter 18

First time he woke up it felt like someone had filled his head with cotton wool. He couldn't hear anything. It was just a brief flicker of consciousness.

The second time felt better. He could hear the steady sound of the heart machine and other sounds any decent hospital would provide.

"Russell?" he heard the most beautiful voice whisper. Jackson turned his head to see Carol, the one woman he had loved for 23 years. He had… called her…

The EBOLA?! No no no nononono! Jackson's mind raced. The EKG turned wild.

"Calm down, Russell, calm down," Carol tried but nothing helped. Jackson fought the tubes and everything that was holding him down.

No no no! He screamed inside his head. Then he felt something sting and slowly the white cotton of oblivion surrounded him. 

* * *

"Carol?" Conrad Dalton called quietly. Carol Jackson turned and walked closer.

"Hi," she said equally quietly.

"How is he?" Dalton asked. Elizabeth McCord walked to them.

"Hey, Carol," she said.

"Hi. The antibiotics are starting to work but he is very restless. We had to sedate him," she said. Dalton looked at McCord who shook her head.

"Do you know why he is restless?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, no idea. We took the intubation tube out so next time he wakes up he may be able to tell us," Carol said. 

* * *

Russell Jackson opened his eyes. Everything was quiet. The room was dark and calm. Then he saw a figure by the window. Jackson's hand moved and the figure moved.

"Russell," he heard Conrad Dalton's voice.

"No," Russell whispered. Dalton came closer and sat down on a chair.

"What is it, Russell?" Dalton asked.

"The… the virus," Russell breathed. Slowly it dawned on Dalton. Jackson had put two and two together and come to a conclusion that was slightly off the track.

"No, Russell, there is no virus. They placed a device in you that contained a cartridge with nerve gas. Had you walked in the Oval Office, it would have popped open and kill us both with the gas. The device was taken out of you. You will be alright," Dalton spoke calmly.

"Greg…" Russell tried.

"Greg Becket was one of them. So was Luke. We still need to find out who else, but most likely that's is it, there isn't anyone else. We have not been able to find the rest of the kidnappers. Greg is very talkative since he thinks I am dead and their scheme was successful," Dalton told Jackson.

"A device?" Russell asked. His breathing was heavy but steady. Dalton patted his arm.

"I know it sounds absolutely insane," he said. Russell started laughing but moaned in pain.

"Easy, Russell, easy," Dalton calmed him down. Then his thoughts went to another time he had seen Jackson on a hospital bed.

"Second time at a hospital. We gotta stop meeting like this, Russell… " Conrad said. Jackson's chest rose and fell a few times.

"Not… up to me, Mr. President… I'm just a…clerk," the man said. Dalton laughed.


End file.
